


Year 3

by SaraNoH, the_wordbutler



Series: 180 Days and Counting [5]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Elementary School, Multi, Teaching
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-11
Updated: 2018-07-23
Packaged: 2018-11-12 21:13:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11170188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaraNoH/pseuds/SaraNoH, https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_wordbutler/pseuds/the_wordbutler
Summary: Much like last year, we open the third year of elementary school adventures with a new engagement and all the usual hijinks. Also on the schedule: an impending baby, a new hire, and a whole lot of tequila.This story is the fifth in the 180 Days and Counting series where our intrepid heroes work as teachers at an elementary school.





	1. Back in the Saddle

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to the fifth installment, friends! It's amazing how a three-sentence tumblr ficlet is now this sprawling universe that Sara and I love so much.
> 
> Thank you guys for all your patience during our much-needed hiatus, but let me assure you: we are back and better than ever! We have plans on top of plans. Look forward to new faces, old faces, important decisions, and of course, a very special baby boy.
> 
> We are forever grateful to have such loyal friends and readers in all of you. Here's to Year 3 and many more!

"Wait, is that—" Jessica Drew squinted at the sheet of paper in front of her. "A shrug emoji?"

Bucky peered over her shoulder. "And the second item's, what? Three cats and a bull whip?"

She jerked away in surprise, nearly elbowing him in the gut. "Stop being creepy and get your own agenda," she snapped. "And how do you know that much about whips, anyway?"

"Uh, did we walk in at the wrong time?" Clint asked as he wandered into the library. Carol, Jessica Cage, Parker, and Triplett followed, hot on his heels. "Because listen, if you guys need some private time—"

"You're not getting it from us," Trip promised, thousand-watt smile and all. Drew snorted, rolling her eyes, and he switched over to his puppy-dog face. "What? Don't tell me you're shy all of a sudden."

"Never mind that. Circle back to the part where Barton's sex life's so barren, he's afraid of a couple whips," Stark encouraged, materializing out of the computer lab with a bucket-sized coffee mug. Clint flipped him the bird, and he shrugged. "Shoot the messenger all you want, buddy, but sooner or later, you'll realize the sad truth."

"Pretty sure my aching jaw disagrees with that theory," Clint fired back as he dropped into a chair.

"Just your jaw?" Phil asked, and he accepted a high-five from his husband while Stark, predictably, shuddered. 

From his traditional spot at the head of the table, Nick bit back a smile. He had to keep up appearances on the first day back, after all, and the patients tended to try and run the asylum when they realized they'd charmed the warden. But truthfully, he lived for this annual meeting, where everybody came back together and—

Pepper handed him an agenda, and he blinked. "Shrugs and bullwhips actually ended up on this damn thing?"

She shrugged. "To be fair, you did tell Sitwell and me to reserve the first twenty minutes for uncontrollable cat-herding."

"Yeah, but how the hell does that translate to—" She raised her eyebrows, and Nick heaved a sigh. "Darcy!"

"You know that bellowing's not exactly charming, right?" Darcy asked, sliding between Rogers and Banner with an enormous platter of bagels. "At most, it's two steps down from an air-raid siren."

Nick waited for the vultures to descend on their breakfast before he said, "An air-raid siren's the least of your worries." She blinked at him, the picture of innocence, and he held up the agenda. "Cats and whips? Really?" Her mouth twitched dangerously, and Nick narrowed his eye. "Remember that line we talked about a couple years ago? Because—"

"Remember all the paperwork I printed out and organized for you yesterday?" she returned, and she rolled her eyes at his frown. "The work-out routine your wife started you on's gotta be brutal if you can't even take a joke."

She strode out of the room, presumably to cart over the rest of the PTO's breakfast spread, and Coulson smirked. "Work-out routine?" he questioned.

"Shut up," Nick grumbled, flipping through his stack of notes.

"Why should he? You complained all summer." Nick leveled a glare at his assistant principal, but Sitwell just grinned. "She let him pick. Martial arts, jogging, or jazzercise."

Carol choked on her coffee. "Please tell me you picked jazzercise."

"There are worse workouts," Bruce said, sipping his coffee.

"While I have at least seventy questions about _that_ statement," Drew told him, "I need to hear more about our boss in spandex."

"I didn't—" Nick defended, and his whole damn staff, Pepper and Sitwell included, just peered at the head of the table. He sighed. "The woman does an hour of tai chi every morning, never mind the time on the treadmill. She's convinced I'm ten minutes from death's door."

"Hey, everybody at this table's seen the way you look at doughnut holes," Stark said. Pepper and Banner cocked their heads at the nearly empty tub of cream cheese in front of him, and he scowled. "What? It's reduced fat."

"Not if you slather on three inches of it," Rogers pointed out, and he elbowed his husband when Bucky muttered something about measurements.

"I miss anything good?" Sam Wilson piped up, and Nick glanced over just as their newest hire walked into the library flanked by Darcy and Romanoff. The office assistant carried a tray of doughnuts and pastries, while the gym teacher— Well. Nick decided against calling it _waddling_ , mostly because he wanted to live through the meeting.

Barnes grinned. "Oh, you know. Talked about Tony's weird crush on Phil—"

"That's offensive," Stark complained around a huge bite of bagel.

"—cat herding, and our boss's devotion to jazzercise."

Sitwell snorted. "Wait 'til he's practicing in his office. It's a sight to behold."

Nick glared at him, but Barnes just continued, "In other words: the usual. Welcome to the mad house."

"It's not usually like this," Pepper promised, gesturing to the empty chair next to her.

"Right," Cage agreed. "It's usually ten times worse."

"And more vulgar," Romanoff supplied as she eased into a chair.

"And Tony's even more into our sex life than Bucky just implied," Clint added.

Stark mimed throwing up into his napkin, and Nick raised his hands. "I'd like to start this meeting sometime in the next century, if you don't mind," he said. A couple of his employees grumbled, but he ignored them to dig a thin stack of papers out of his pile of notes. "To start: the actual, cat-free agenda."

"Spoil sport," Darcy muttered—but she handed him his favorite doughnut, so he forgave her.

* * *

Bucky froze in the door of his classroom. Softly snoring—not that he would ever point that out or admit it aloud—in a rocking chair in the reading nook was Natasha. Bucky looked over his shoulder to see if anyone else was in the hallway, but there wasn't. He gently closed the classroom door and made his way to his desk. He eased his way into the office chair, knowing its age and habit of creaking. He was mostly successful in that there was only a small squeak emitted from the seat. He held his breath and stilled until he was sure he hadn't woken his friend.

Bucky had planned on typing up a number of documents—welcome newsletter, lesson plans, and a handful of emails—during this short break between meetings. But as Steve lovingly pointed out from time to time, Bucky was apparently an "angry typer." He knew Nat could sleep through all kinds of noise when she was in college, but he didn't know her habits now, even if she was clearly exhausted. Unsurprising, since the baby was due any day now. Add to that the stress of a new house, new school year, six weeks of sub plans during her maternity leave, and stepping into a new relationship level with Bruce. She needed rest, and Bucky would give her as much as he could.

The school staff agenda for the teacher workday showed that they should be transitioning from team or grade-level meetings to individual work time for an hour before the staff gathered once more in the library to end the day. If Bucky had to bet, Phil had let Natasha out of their specials team meeting early. Why she'd picked this classroom to go to, Bucky couldn't say for sure. He gave her one last glance before reaching for his phone to answer emails that with less noisy typing, even if his fat thumbs would make it take longer.

"This is new," a groggy voice stated a few minutes later. Natasha ran her hands along the arms of the wooden rocking chair she was sitting in.

"One of Steve's pet projects this summer," Bucky replied.

"Gift for you?" she asked, stretching slightly.

Bucky shook his head. "Just trying to free up any space I can in his workshop. God forbid someone try and actually park a car in a garage of all places. Crazy talk."

The corner of her mouth turned up slightly. "The air conditioning in the gym is on the fritz. Darcy said maintenance guys are running around the district and might not get here until later tonight," she explained. "And your class is closer to the library than Clint's."

"Thought you would've gone to Bruce's room. Scared you wouldn't be able to stand up from one of his bean bag chairs?" Bucky asked.

"Stairs and I aren't on the best of terms at the moment and I feel like an idiot having to use the elevator." Bucky pursed his lips, and she shook her head. "I don't need to hear from yet another person about how I should just start my leave now and not be here."

"I am Team Bruce on this one," Bucky admitted.

"Well, district policy isn't," Natasha reminded him. "If I stay home, it's more unpaid leave and it could screw up my retirement pension." She paused to shrug. "The joys of working yourself to death like a true American while trying to have a child."

"Bruce decided what he's going to do with his leave?" Bucky asked.

"Take a week off when he comes, and then finish the rest of his allotted six weeks after I'm done with mine."

"And then what?"

Natasha shrugged again. "Still trying to look for childcare. Should've done it this summer, but the house ate up our time."

"You're still not going to tell us his name?" Bucky pressed.

"Not until he's born. I don't want to hear shit from people about what he should be named until I have a picture of his undoubtedly adorable face to show them as a distraction."

Bucky smiled. "Fair enough."

Natasha grunted softly as she reached into the band of her maternity yoga pants for her phone. "Bruce."

"He's checking up on you because he cares," Bucky reminded her.

"He's checking up on me because Tony could see the baby moving underneath my shirt while I was nodding off and thought there was going to be remake of _Alien_. He probably texted a frantic message to Bruce," Natasha said. She tried to get up from the chair, but it rocked under her and she was forced back down, causing her to swear something Russian under her breath.

"You were totally able to stand up on your own," Bucky told her as he helped her stand. "Nothing to see here."

"Thanks," she replied softly. "I guess I should start waddling down to the library now since our next meeting starts in forty-five minutes. Might actually make it on time."

"I'm sure Fury wouldn't notice if you went home," Bucky said. "Or skipped out for someplace cool and quiet. With pillows."

Natasha waved a hand over her middle. Bucky wasn't quite sure how her stomach hadn't split open. "I'm a little hard to miss at the moment."

"Don't tell anyone I told you, but there's a betting pool—"

"Of course there is," she muttered.

"About who would have to deliver the kid. You want any of us sticking our hands in... Do you want of us doing that?"

"I almost want to see you try," she challenged.

"I would definitely throw up. But just do us all a favor: have the kid in a hospital. Please. We're good friends, and I'd like to be able to keep my ability to look you in the eye."

* * *

"It's not like I hate accelerated reader," Clint said, his feet on a chair as he flipped through a Scholastic catalogue. "I've heard those rants a thousand times. Been there, done that, bought the t-shirt. But when it comes to struggling readers, it's not always the best tool. You know?"

"Mmm," Carol replied, listening intently. Well, okay, mostly. Kind of. Halfway, at least? Look, she had a lot of spam e-mails to sift through before her soul-sucking meeting with the district's special education director. Clint's deep thoughts on Accelerated Reader—an annual event at this point—barely registered.

She deleted three e-mails from Banana Republic, four from Ann Taylor, two from Hobby Lobby, and one from Best Buy. When had she even visited Hobby Lobby? She wondered if Jessica'd lied and used her e-mail address _again_.

"Plus, Phil's on a diverse books kick," Clint continued, oblivious to her distraction. "And yeah, I'm on board, but lemme tell you something: for a couple with no kids aside from an illiterate dog, we're pretty much swimming in middle grade novels. I knocked over a stack last night. Almost died tripping on _Tortilla Sun_. But the second I suggest we buy a new chainsaw—"

Rolling her eyes, Carol switched over to her browser. Clint's chainsaw rant—a constant refrain pretty much all summer long—promised to drone on for at least twenty minutes, leaving her plenty of time to screw around on the internet. She checked the news (for about five seconds—thanks, politics!), scrolled around on Pinterest, and inevitably landed back at Google.

Clint's voice faded to white noise as she typed in _wedding planning websites_ and hoped to hell she didn't blush.

Immediately, dozens of results popped up, all of them with terrifying titles like _19 of the Best Wedding Planning Apps_ and _22 Websites that Make Wedding Planning So Much Easier_. Actually, every freaking link promised somewhere between ten and thirty more links to other, better websites. Like a snake eating its own tail, she thought, only the snake probably wore a veil.

Or pearls.

She shuddered and randomly clicked on one of the links.

And instantly, Clint demanded, "What the fuck?"

Carol jumped and closed the window, but not fast enough. From his spot at the corner of her desk—dropping off the catalogue on his way out the door, she realized—Clint just stared. He glanced at her computer monitor, at her face, and back at the monitor. His eyes widened, his eyebrows rose, and his mouth—

She jabbed a finger at his shit-eating smirk. "Don't."

"What?" He sounded about as innocent as a second-grader who'd just eaten a whole jar of paste. "I'm just standing here."

Carol snorted. "Bullshit."

"Minding my own business."

"For the first time in recorded history? I don't think so."

"Definitely not basking in the fact that you're, what? Seriously discussing marriage with your man-friend?" She rolled her eyes as she reopened her e-mail, and Clint shook his head. "No. There's no way you'd talk about it. Not seriously enough to start signing up for The Knot or whatever the hell I just witnessed, at least."

Carol frowned at him. "Since when do you know the names of wedding websites?"

"Since when do you look at wedding websites?" Clint shot back, and she grit her teeth. "No, if you're looking, you skipped right past the whole 'talking about it' stage. Which means . . . "

He paused, his eyes searching her face. Waiting for a denial, Carol recognized, or some flicker of protest.

She groaned and buried her face in her hands. "You can't tell Tony."

"Holy shit, you're getting married!" Clint announced, loud enough that his voice echoed. Carol glared at him, and he clamped a hand over his mouth. "Sorry, sorry," he said, sounding surprisingly sincere. "It's just— You run from commitment, you know that?"

"I've heard."

"And not at a jog, either. A full-on sprint in the opposite direction. Dust cloud behind you."

For a second, Carol seriously considered throwing her stapler at him. "Are you trying to make a point, or am I just a good stand-in for seething about the chainsaw?"

"Oh, I'm gonna get that chainsaw," Clint insisted, incorrigible grin and all. "But my point is that you and Rhodey getting hitched is great. And not just because Tony's probably going to implode. It's good for you." Carol huffed, mostly trying to shrug off the compliment, and he playfully punched her shoulder. "Adds one more to Team Disgusting Old Marrieds."

"I refuse to turn out like you and Phil," she countered, and he cackled. "And I'm dead serious about keeping this from Tony. One word, and I will kill you."

Clint held up his hands. "Don't worry. I have a healthy fear of your wrath. But you know he'll find out eventually, right? Even if you elope or something?"

"You sure about that?" Carol challenged, but he just kept watching her. "And yeah, I know he's going to find out. But I don't want a production. If Tony's involved, he'll arrange for white doves to be released while a quartet of harpists play a song he commissioned just for us. And I— Call me selfish if you want, but I really don't want to share my wedding with Tony's 'vision.'" Clint laughed at her air-quotes, but when she dropped her hands, he kept smiling. She narrowed her eyes. "What?"

He shrugged. "Maybe I'm just really proud of you right now."

She cocked her head at him. "Or?"

"Or I'm really excited about starting a betting pool that Tony can't participate in. You decide."

* * *

"First person to stick a dodge ball under their shirt gets terrible pictures of themselves plastered all over the school website," Natasha warned as she sank into the chair Darcy had decorated in a hot second and declared the Queen Judge's Throne.

The school office manager grinned wickedly. "Please let Stark do it. Please let Stark do it. Please let Stark do it," she prayed. 

"He embarrasses himself too easily," Natasha pointed out. "I'm hoping for Clint."

"Because he's never an embarrassment?" Darcy questioned. She paused to scan the gym's occupants. The large, insufferably hot room was full of the school's staff for the annual dodge ball distraction from endless professional development meetings. "I know Phil wouldn't ever do it, but I would love to see some embarrassing pictures of him."

"No, you don't," Natasha replied. "Pretty sure they would all be sex pics with Clint, and no one wants to see that."

"Speak for yourself," Darcy said, and Natasha grimaced. 

Darcy had missed her people. Even cranky Mrs. Howard. She'd felt a little lost lately, but now that she was back among her co-workers, the world seemed to be slightly straighter on its axis.

She cleared her throat before raising the bullhorn to her mouth. "Good morning, Vietnam," she said loudly.

"Not morning, and we're not in Asia," Clint yelled back.

"Thank you, Captain Obvious," Darcy replied while flipping him the bird. "Since it's hot as balls in here, but still somehow cooler than outside, let's make this the fastest dodgeball tournament known to man, alright?" There was a small chorus of approving sounds for her requests and whines about the stupid lack of air conditioning.

"We really can't do this in the cafeteria?" Stark asked.

"Some of us believe in not pissing off the cafeteria ladies," Phil replied. "Want to have it in your computer lab?"

"We could do the library instead," Stark shot back.

"Calm down, ladies," Darcy interjected. "I will give the option for anyone who wants to opt out for medical reasons, including a severe case of wussiness."

"Darcy," Nick warned from the corner where he was undoubtedly trying to keep up with his e-mail inbox. 

"Fine," she sighed through the bullhorn. "I won't call you a wuss. I'll let Sitwell do it." That earned her a dirty look from the assistant principal. Look how much she didn't care about that. "And, to mix things up further this year, you are free to pick your own teams. No more than six players on a roster."

Half of the staff immediately went for the bleachers, unwilling to risk passing out in the sauna of the gym or finally grateful to be given a reprieve from an activity they saw as "fruitless" and "degrading." Again, Darcy did not care.

It took twenty minutes to whittle the teams down to the final two. "On my right," Darcy announced, "is the team of people married to each other." While the title certainly fit the Barnses and the Bartons, Bruce just looked at her with a bored expression while Tony preened slightly before blowing a kiss in Pepper's direction. His actual spouse just rolled her eyes. "And on my left," Darcy continued, "is the team that will slay all." Peter was the only one who acknowledged the compliment with raising his hands over his head in a celebratory pose, the adorable baby. The rest of his team—Trip, Carol, Jess, Sam, and Pepper—simply stared down their opponents. This was going to be a massacre, and it was going to be awesome. "You sure you want your baby daddy caught up in this melee?" Darcy quietly asked Natasha.

"He has more prowess than you'd think just by looking at him," Natasha said.

"I am simultaneously disgusted and wanting to know all the details. You guys ever tape yourself?" Natasha's only answer was to arch an eyebrow. Darcy shrugged. "Plenty of people around here who'd watch it is all I'm saying. If you ever need a distributor—"

"Hurry up so we can all get out of here try to stop sweating," Natasha said.

"Fair enough."

With a blow of her own personal whistle (not her rape one but the other one), things got off to a start. Peter and Stark were out almost instantly. Phil was kicked out a few seconds later and pouted his way to the sideline for being clipped on the heel and muttering something about Achilles. Nerd. She internally shrugged. He was still hot. Just nerd hot.

She was brought out of her reverie by an agonized groan from Jess as she got knocked in the head by Steve, who was apologizing profusely. There was another volley of red dodge balls across Darcy's vision, and the end result was Bruce, Bucky, and Trip leaving the game. On Darcy's right remained Steve and Clint, while Carol, Sam, and Pepper waited for an attack since the other side had managed to collect all six of the balls in play.

"Get on with it already," yelled an undoubtedly sweaty teacher from the bleachers. And while Darcy enjoyed an epic stare down, her pits agreed with the sentiment.

Clint finger spelled what Darcy assumed were some letters, and Steve nodded. She would have to investigate how Steve knew sign language later. The attack came a second later, both of them aiming for Sam. The target was able to catch Clint's ball, sending him to the sideline, but Steve's landed half a beat later on Sam's beefy shoulder. While Steve still technically had the advantage of four balls at his disposal, Pepper and Carol quickly scooped up the remaining two to arm themselves. A grin crossed Steve's face; not the usual shy and polite kind. It was dangerous and challenging. And really hot.

Working with a bunch of gorgeous men who were either gay, married, or both was extremely frustrating.

Steve was able to nimbly jerk out of the way of Pepper's throw, and even managed to knock her out in turn, but Carol landed the kill shot when Steve couldn't react fast enough to catch Carol's ball and it grazed through his fingers.

"Winner!" Carol shouted.

"Don't you mean 'winners?'" Sam asked her.

"No, loser, you got knocked out."

* * *

"Here's a question: what did these computers do to your students?" Bruce snorted, lost somewhere in his pile of pint-sized lesson plans, and Tony jabbed a finger at him. "Laugh all you want, but I'm serious as a heart attack. These beasts of burden feed them a steady diet of, what? Number Crunchers and Kid Pix?"

Bruce peered over the tops of his glasses. "Are we suddenly back in 1993?"

"A mid-nineties IBM'd survive this torture chamber better than these bad boys." He patted the nearest monitor, and Bruce rolled his eyes. "All day, they spit out fun math games and reading challenges, and for what? A keyboard full of cheerios? Kool-Aid dust in the motherboard?"

"I still blame you for that," Bruce said.

"And again, I only cracked open that CPU tower after one of your little gremlins mashed salami in the CD-ROM drive." The other guy's laugh lines crinkled, and Tony nearly dropped his screwdriver. "You knew! Three entire years of choir-boy innocence, pleading the fifth every time I asked—"

"Including when you wrote into Judge Judy," his traitorous best friend reminded him.

"—and here, you had first-hand knowledge! You're practically an accomplice!"

Bruce looked up again, his expression thoughtful. "On second thought, Pepper's right. You watched too much _Law and Order_ this summer."

"Benedict Arnold," Tony fired right back, and Bruce smirked as he returned to his lesson plans.

For a couple minutes, they worked in silence, with Tony replacing keys on the latest crumb-clogged keyboard while Bruce figured out new and exciting ways to hook kids on phonics. At least, Tony assumed; he usually hissed and backed away when the grade-level teachers tried to talk about their curriculum. But when the silence crept in like an unwelcome, prickly guest, he asked, "What you working on, anyway? A revolutionary method of counting to ten?"

"Pi, actually," Bruce deadpanned, "but no. I'm looking over my plans for paternity leave. Trying to sort them into reasonable sense, I guess."

He kept his tone casual—like a verbal shrug, really—but Tony still caught the way he rubbed the lines of his forehead. An age-old tell, the kind he telegraphed from about a mile away but still expected nobody to notice.

Tony snagged another keyboard. "You nervous?"

Bruce leveled a very accusatory look in his direction. "This from the man whose sub notes include the line _no drinks in my lab under penalty of actual death_?"

"A threat I'll maintain right through my dying day, thank you," Tony replied, and Bruce snorted as he returned to his binder. "But we both know I'm not really talking about your leave, so . . . "

He punched the last word a little, letting it linger in the air as he pried the home row off another defiled keyboard. Bruce kept working for a couple seconds, his head bowed and his lips pursed into a tight line. Finally, he said, "It's normal to be a little worried, I think."

"About which part?"

"All of it?" Bruce asked, ditching his glasses to pinch the bridge of his nose. "With the heat and everything, Natasha barely sleeps. Meaning that I wake up in the middle of the night, too. And I want to check on her without being overbearing, but . . . " He shook his head. "Last night, I dreamed that her water broke in the middle of class. I tried running down to the gym, but I kept getting lost. The hallways were all switchbacks, and I couldn't be there."

Tony nodded. "Ambien," he suggested, and immediately, Bruce rolled his eyes. "Okay, fine, no high-powered sleep aids. But how about you remember that Natasha's made of steel and Soviet stoicism? Because I promise, that woman could deliver this kid while driving a car without ever batting an eyebrow."

Bruce cringed. "Are you trying to give me nightmares?"

"Are you trying to say I'm wrong?"

"No, but—" Tony cocked an eyebrow, the world's most effective silent interruption, and Bruce's shoulders softened as he sighed. "I want them both safe. More importantly, I want her comfortable until he's born. Not stressed out about lesson plans and broken air conditioning."

"You really think she wants to eat bon-bons and watch daytime television?" Tony countered. "Look, I'm not sure how the founding member of Team Bruce somehow landed on the other side of the field, here, but I'm pretty sure Natasha's fine. Actually, she's probably better off at work and surrounded by people who fear and respect her than at home. Alone. Liable to give birth on your nice, new floors." 

Bruce frowned. "How much have you thought about this?"

"Too much, apparently, because— Yeah, okay, that's like a whole new season of _American Horror Story_ in my head, now, and that's completely on you." He pounded the side of his head lightly, a big show of knocking all the visions of gore-covered hardwood out of his head, and Bruce chuckled. "But seriously: trust your Baby Mama. If only because she'll probably garrote you with part of the mobile if you don't."

His buddy grinned, looking mostly like the spring-loaded tension in his shoulders had loosened a little, and Tony hummed as he returned to the task at hand. Three thoroughly dissected goldfish crackers and an unidentified glob of greenish-brown slop later, however, Bruce asked, "You've really come around on Natasha, haven't you?"

"Or I just don't want to be straight-up murdered," Tony countered, and Bruce smiled again.

* * *

“Are you out of your damn mind?” Sam questioned as Carol set out a row of shots in front of him. “Because it’s four o’clock right now, and I have a feeling you’re not going to stop with this. And I have to function tomorrow for the first day of school.”

Carol’s grin was dangerous. “It’s an onboarding tradition for the special education department.”

Piper—in charge of handling caseloads for kindergarten and first grade—nodded. “Pretty sure I have a permanent hangover from a few years ago.” That was terrifying because Piper was just as scary intimidating as Carol. With her short brown hair and compact frame, Sam was almost afraid to hit on her. Almost.

He turned his attention down the table to Buck, who had a shit-eating grin. “What the hell did you get me into, man?” Sam asked.

“I swear I didn’t know this was going to be part of it,” Bucky apologized. “But doesn’t mean I’m not going to enjoy watching this happen.”

Sam pointed a finger at Steve, smirking beside his husband. “Please withhold sex from him. Please.”

“Drink up,” Carol ordered, nudging the first shot glass in his direction. The clear liquid inside threatened to spill over the edge with its momentum but kept from splashing onto the table.

Sam sniffed at the glass. Tequila. Great. He could drink beer all day long, and he loved a good bourbon. But tequila? He was going to get trashed. And it wasn’t going to be pretty. He wondered briefly if Fury would be okay with him wearing sunglasses for his first day of working with kids. He did have some pretty sweet shades.

Steeling himself, he took down the first shot and placed the glass none too gently on the table upside down. The alcohol burned the entire way down. Not only was it tequila, but cheap tequila. Shit.

“One down,” Carol commented. “Need a second before you do the next one?”

“Any chance of it becoming a body shot?” Sam questioned.

“Only if you want more drinks added to your hazing,” Piper warned.

“Fair enough,” Sam replied as he downed the second shot. He hissed through the gap in his teeth after swallowing, making a slight whistling sound. “Out of curiosity, what exactly is the lineup for tonight? Need to pace myself.”

Carol tapped her phone. “No need to worry. Tony made an app a few years ago. All I have to do is type in basic information like weight and height and it tells you exactly how much someone can consume and maintain different levels of drunkenness. I won’t let you cross over into black out range.”

Sam squinted. “I thought Stark didn’t drink.”

“Pretty sure he started developing it for Clint and Phil’s bachelor party. It’s a private app. He may be rich, but not that level of lawsuit rich,” Carol said.

Sam tried to feel reassured, but her promise to not let him get white-girl wasted—a phrase he learned from Bucky that neither man would say out loud—but it didn’t totally ease his fears. An hour later, he’d finished his line of shots and Carol and Piper had let him eat some food. He usually tried to avoid the fry all the things mentality that covered Xavier’s menu, but today was apparently going to be a cheat day. He couldn’t even think about what gym time would look like tomorrow. Just pain. So much pain.

The sun was setting when Steve and Bucky walked him out to their car. They’d apparently had at least some idea of what was going to happen, because the men had left Sam’s car at school and driven him to the bar. Since they’d each only had a couple beers over the few hours they’d spent at Xavier’s, either was fine to drive. Sam might be comfortable behind the wheel in about a week.

“Takin’ me home?” he half-slurred.

“You going to puke everywhere?” Bucky asked. “Because we can, but if you haven’t gotten better at holding your liquor since we last worked together, I’m putting you in the garage on a tarp. We can hose you down in the morning.”

“’Bout clothes?” Sam questioned.

“Grabbed your gym bag, remember?” Steve prompted. “You said you had an extra pair of work clothes in there. I can iron anything if you need.”

“Calm down with your iron,” Bucky shot back. “Mister perfectly pressed khakis.”

“And yet, you have me iron your clothes all the time,” Steve said.

Bucky shrugged. “I’m all about you doing as many of my chores as possible. You know I make good on saying thank you.”

“Get it,” Sam said with a smirk. 

Bucky rolled his eyes. “Get your drunk ass in the car, idiot. Try not to puke until we’re home.”


	2. Day One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all again for your patience in the last few months. Words cannot describe how much we appreciate each and every one of you. Hopefully, this chapter marks the start of a much more regular posting schedule--and a lot more surprises throughout Year 3.

“I think I should just be able to skip first grade,” Alva declared as Thor tucked her tightly into bed. 

“Oh really?” Thor asked. “You know your mother is going to make you have reasons to show us why you don’t need the first grade.”

“Henry and George have already done it, and I’m as smart as they are, so I can skip it,” she offered as an argument.

Thor bit his tongue at that comment. Henry certainly took after his father more than his genius mother when it came to academics. George, in his quietness, was always working out puzzles in his mind, but he still had his struggles. Alva certainly was a good student, but it was hard to know for sure when she’d only gone through pre-school and kindergarten. Doctor Banner was wonderful at finding where his students shined brightest and sharing that with parents. He had had a crush on Jane—not that Thor could blame him—and always praised their three children.

“Well, if you want your mother and me to call Miss Potts to give you a test to see if you already know as much as a first grader, we can,” Thor said. It was a total bluff. Jane had graduated high school at sixteen and vehemently swore against having her kids skip grades.

“There’s a test?” Alva asked quietly, a hint of intimidation in her voice.

Thor should have been ashamed of himself for lying to a child, his one and only daughter. But as Jane not so subtly pointed out from time to time, his children had inherited his reckless ego. And sometimes they needed to be brought down low. “A huge, massive test. Lasts for days. There’s a bunch of math problems with long division, and reading tests on large chapter books. Mister Rogers even comes and makes you draw the entire school building, inside and out, like the blueprints I use at work.”

“And they have to be perfect?” Alva assumed, her voice growing even quieter.

“Sure, definitely,” Thor answered with a nod. “So you still think you should just skip over first grade?”

Alva frowned. “Can I at least have a different teacher? George and Henry said Missus Howard is the meanest person on the planet.”

“Your brothers disliked her because she kept them from misbehaving, just like she will for you.” Thor corrected. “We must learn to respect our elders. Even if you disagree with them, you must obey them. They have wisdom you do not, and it is a good idea to listen to them.”

“But Mama says you don’t like to listen to Grandpa. And he’s old,” Alva pointed out.

Thor sighed and tried not to mentally curse his wife. “Your grandfather and I have had a challenging history. But you have yet to spend time with Missus Howard, so you do not have that excuse, regardless of what your brothers may have to say on the matter. Do you promise to give first grade a fair chance?”

“I promise,” Alva said, giving a single, sharp nod of agreement.

Thor kissed her forehead. “Sweet dreams, my princess.” He turned off the overhead light, leaving her bedroom bathed in a dim purple hue cast from her fairy nightlight. He closed her door gently and headed downstairs to the kitchen. In the back of the refrigerator, he found what he was looking for—an unlabeled, large brown bottle. Heimdall had brought the growler of mead, a basement production of his and Sif’s father that Thor had been drinking for longer than he should legally be allowed to. Not bothering with dirtying another dish, he took a swig straight from the source. He swirled the sweet liquid in his mouth, relishing the taste, for a second before swallowing. Small hands stole the growler from his grasp. His wife was sometimes far too quiet and sneaky for his liking.

“To only having to pay for afterschool child care and keeping back a stupid amount of money,” Jane toasted before taking a long pull from the bottle.

“Whoa,” Thor chuckled. “Take it easy. You don’t want a hangover during the first day of school madness.” He reclaimed the drink and helped himself to another swig. “Boys go down easily?”

“Easily enough,” Jane answered. “If either of them ask, Mister Fury has secret cameras in all of the classrooms and on the playground to watch their behavior.”

“I told Alva that she had to take ridiculous test to get out of first grade,” Thor admitted.

Jane took the growler back and lifted it in a salute. “To our parenting skills.”

* * *

Aunt Claire crouched down in front of him, right in the middle of the hallway. "First day at new school's always rough," she said, and he looked at his shoes. "But what do we say about tough things?"

He wrinkled his nose. "I don't know."

"Yeah, you do." She ruffled his hair a little, and he fidgeted. "C'mon, Marco. What do we say?"

Marco sighed. "We're tougher than tough things, and we always kick butt."

Aunt Claire smiled really big. "Right, _sobrino_ ," she said, and he didn't even squirm when she kissed him on the forehead.

The hallway at his new school swarmed with other students, and as Marco hiked his backpack up, he tried not to feel nervous. Aunt Claire had promised that he'd like his teacher and classmates, but his stomach still felt funny when he thought about all those strangers. He thought about scary things like that too much, according to Aunt Claire, who hugged him tight when he had nightmares but also chased him outside to play a lot.

He tagged along with Aunt Claire all the way to his new classroom, where Miss Drew stood. He'd met Miss Drew one time, when Aunt Claire signed him up for school, and she seemed like she drank a lot of coffee. _High-energy_ , Aunt Claire'd said, smiling. Marco remembered his old teacher, a lady that smelled musty like his _abeula's_ attic, and decided he liked Miss Drew better.

Except right now, Aunt Claire stopped in front of Miss Drew to say something quiet, and Marco frowned. Aunt Claire always talked to his teachers in whispers, and every time, they looked at him with these funny smiles. Like they worried about him. He already had his counselor and Aunt Claire worrying about him. He didn't need everyone at school to do the same thing.

A couple girls pushed past them and into the classroom, already laughing, and he peeked inside carefully. The room already had a lot of kids in it, and most of them acted like friends. They'd probably gone to school together since kindergarten. They knew each other's names, and favorite colors, and who played kickball the best. The sick feeling rolled around in Marco's stomach again, just for a second. 

"Okay, you ready?" Aunt Claire asked all of a sudden, and Marco nodded. Not a good nod, though, because his aunt right away frowned and crouched down again. "You're going to be fine," she promised, her hands on his shoulders. "The other kids in your class are really friendly, and guess what: today is library day."

The butterflies calmed down. "I like the library."

"I know." She messed up his hair again, but she didn't kiss him. "See you after school, okay?"

"Okay."

Most of the other kids sort of ignored him when he walked into the room, which he liked a lot. He figured out where to hang his backpack—he was the only Marco in his class, this year—and only looked around for like a minute before he found his desk. It was pushed up next to another one, like partners, and there was already a boy sitting there.

Marco sat down and right away started looking through the books. He almost didn't hear the other boy say, "Hi. I'm George. Are you new?"

The question brought back giant butterflies, but Marco nodded. "Yeah. I'm Marco." 

"I've never been new. I bet it's scary." Marco stopped hiding his head in his desk, but George was looking at his pencil. It was new, but all bit up. "I don't like starting a new grade. I liked my kindergarten teacher a lot, but my teacher last year never smiled. Ever."

"My old teacher smelled funny." George looked surprised, but he giggled, too. "Like old books from the library. Or where my _abuela_ keeps all of Aunt Claire's old school stuff I'm not supposed to mess with." Marco leaned in a little. "She has these books full of pictures of her and her friends. They wrote her notes in them, and some have swear words."

George grinned. "My brother said a swear word yesterday," he reported. "He said my uncle taught him, but I know he actually heard it from Darcy. She swears a lot when she thinks we can't hear."

"Who's Darcy? Your aunt?"

George tilted his head for a second before he shrugged. "Kind of? We wanted her to marry Uncle Loki, but they don’t like each other anymore. She babysits us a lot and works in the office. You'll hear her on announcements."

"Do you think she'll swear on announcements?" Marco wondered.

George burst out laughing. "I want to see Principal Fury if Darcy swears!" he decided, and after remembering how big and mean Mr. Fury looked, Marco laughed, too.

"Well, I guess I don't need to do introductions," a lady said while they were still giggling, and Marco looked up to see Miss Drew standing in front of them, her hands on her hips. "You guys okay being desk partners and looking out for each other?"

Marco looked over at George for a second, but George was already nodding. "I'll make sure we don't get lost on the way to the library," he reported. "And if we do get lost, we'll get lost together."

Marco blinked. "Is the library that hard to find?" he wondered.

"Only sometimes," George said, and he only grinned when Miss Drew laughed really hard.

* * *

Carol looked up from where she was deleting obligatory welcome e-mails from around the building and school district to find Hannah standing in front of her desk, arms crossed and face dark. Carol had not yet consumed nearly enough coffee to deal with a moody tween on the first day of school. “Summer that bad, kid?” she asked, making sure to look Hannah in the eye even though she was ninety-nine percent sure the girl hadn’t learned to lip read during the break from school. Nor had she probably picked up ASL, because her parents thought her hearing aids were enough. Even though the ten-year-old had trouble keeping up with their maintenance and no less than six times a school year found herself unable to hear and could only communicate through writing. 

“You gave me the deaf teacher,” Hannah answered in a venomous tone, her speech still not completely clear despite having years of therapy on her record. 

Carol raised a single eyebrow as a warning shot across the newly minted fifth grader’s bow. “That’s funny, I thought your schedule said your homeroom teacher is Mister Barton.”

“Yeah,” Hannah agreed. “Everyone knows he’s deaf, and now I’m stuck with him as a teacher. I already got made fun of on the bus about how no one in the room is going to be able to hear each other so we’re just going to do silent reading all the time.”

To Carol that sounded like bliss, but she wasn’t an emotionally fragile fifth grader. “I told you the rules last year: all of my kids have Mister Barton for their homeroom teacher. No ifs, ands, or buts. You’ll still see all the other fifth grade teachers every day. It’s going to be okay. Promise.”

Hannah huffed and walked away. Carol took another swig of her coffee. Taking her NASA mug with her, she set off for Clint’s room. He was tucked in Jessica Jones’s doorway, undoubtedly discussing something inappropriate with the fifth grade math teacher. “Trash talking without me?”Carol asked.

“He’s freaking out about Natasha,” Jessica said dryly.

“When is he not?” Carol questioned. She turned to Clint, who had a look of mock hurt and shock on his face. “Borrow you for a second.”

“That sounded more like an order than a request,” Clint replied. “You talk to Rhodey like that?”

“You really want me to answer that?” Carol challenged. Clint’s sour face was enough of an answer to that question. “We need to talk to about Hannah.”

She watched Clint swallow a sigh before he opened his mouth. Phil had trained him well. “We talked about this last year and even had a meeting with the parents. They’re hearing, and they don’t want their daughter to part of Deaf culture. They don’t want me signing while I teach or doing anything beyond her education plan requirements. And I’m going to go with that.”

“You don’t think this is a bad idea?” Carol asked.

“I think I’m not her parents and therefore don’t have a say in how she should be raised,” Clint answered with the practiced tone of a veteran teacher. “Personally? I don’t know. I remember being that kid when I was a teenager and trying desperately to stay in the normal category, wanting to hide my hearing aids and everything. She has to come to that place in her own time, if it ever happens at all.”

Carol felt her posture fall slightly. “I just have a really bad about feeling about this.”

“You’ve watched too many _Star Wars_ movies,” Clint replied.

“That’s physically impossible,” she shot back. She turned to leave and head into Clint’s classroom, but he touched her elbow and brought her attention back to him.

“You need a longer chain,” he said.

“What are you talking about?” His eyes flicked down to her chest before coming back up to meet her eyes. Carol felt her insides go cold as she touched the necklace under her blouse without really thinking. “You saw?” she asked. “And why were you looking?”

Clint gave her an _are you serious?_ expression. “First, you and I both know I don’t care to look at cleavage unless chest hair is involved, and you don’t have that quality. Second, the light caught the shine of something—something I definitely did not see—so yeah, get a longer chain or something.”

“You‘re not going to tell anyone are you? Like a certain technology teacher?” Carol asked.

“Why on earth would I want to bring that level of hell down on all of us?”

* * *

“Hey, look who it is!” Darcy announced, grinning as she spotted two familiar faces heading in her direction. “Long time, no see. Lemme guess: you’re here looking for a fist bump, right? Since last time I checked, everybody’d quit dabbing.”

She raised her elbow, all ready to mock that insanely hot football player and every teenager who’d copied him in the last couple years, but Macy and Devon Garrison just exchanged nervous glances. They looked exactly like Darcy remembered, shy and messy-haired with sibling-set smiles.

Not that they smiled today. No, instead they peered around Darcy, trying to glimpse the inside of the front office. Darcy lowered her arm. “Do you need me to look up your teachers?” she asked. “I know your granddad stopped by last week to sign you up and everything, but lots of kids need a refresher on—”

“Can we talk to Miss Potts?” Macy interrupted. At her side, her brother nodded eagerly. “I know Mister Stark said no students in the office right away—”

“And no wet willies,” Devon added quietly. “Or gummy worm bombs, whatever that means.”

“—but we, uh.” Macy paused, and her lower lip trembled dangerously. “We just want to visit with her for, like, a minute. Please?”

The desperation in that single word cut Darcy right to the core. She glanced around conspiratorially before leaning down to the kids. “The rule’s mostly for Mister Sitwell, since he’s afraid of germs and sunburns,” she whispered, coaxing a tiny smile out of Devon. “And happiness and artificial sweeteners. Ask him about Splenda sometime. His head’ll totally explode.”

Rewarded by Macy’s tiny laugh, Darcy threw open the office door and waved them in. The “no students” rule usually just helped cut down on first-day homesickness and fake stomachaches, but she knew a truly upset kid when she spotted one. Especially since, when she steered the kids into a couple empty chairs, she caught Macy wiping her nose on the back of her hand.

She arrived at Pepper’s office just as the counselor hung up her phone for about the tenth time that morning. “I know we’re in the helicopter parent power hour,” Darcy greeted, “and you can totally send me away if you’re busy. But the Garrison kids just showed up, and they really wanna talk to you.”

Right away, Pepper sighed. “Their grandfather worried this might happened. He tried to reassure them, but after everything—”

“What kind of everything?” Pepper cocked her head slightly, and Darcy raised her hands. “I know most of what happens in your magic office is none of my business,” she said, “but I remember when their mom pulled them out of school, what, a year ago? And since I purposely look out for my Candy Crew—”

Pepper blinked. “Your what?”

“You know, the kids who’re frequent flyers to the office because life’s tough. Sick relatives, unreliable parents, the girl with the really intense braces who had an orthodontist appointment every week for most of last year.” They shared a sympathetic little cringe before Darcy shrugged. “When things are tough, I pass them a Starburst or something from the bucket in my bottom drawer. And if it’s especially bad, I teach them a secret handshake and induct them into the Candy Crew.”

“How’s Jasper feel about that?” Pepper asked.

“He steals enough candy that I need to steal Jane’s Costco card to afford the refills. He’ll deal.” This time, the counselor actually laughed, and Darcy propped her shoulder against the doorjamb. “Look, if you don’t think I should know, that’s cool. But at least help me avoid the landmines? I’m still kind of shaken from the Dead Rabbit Conversation last year.”

“Tony still refuses to mention rabbits when Callie’s in his class,” Pepper confessed, and Darcy grinned. Well, at least until Pepper sighed quietly. “Macy and Devon’s mother moved them around a lot during the last school year. They never stayed anywhere more than a few weeks, and that’s if she even signed them up for school in the first place. They ended up truant, and when child services got involved, their mother convinced them that the social workers would split them up into different homes.”

Darcy’s heart suck into her stomach. “You’re kidding.”

“Sadly, no. They’re placed with their grandfather now, and he’s taking good care of them, but those wounds don’t heal quickly. They’re still afraid they’re going to be split up.” Pepper shook her head. “Go ahead and send them in. I’ll e-mail their teachers so they’re not marked absent.”

Darcy saluted. “Roger that, boss.”

When she trotted back into the main office, Macy had a ball of tissues in her lap, but they both pretended to ignore them. Sort of like how Darcy pretended not to think about them as she high-fived other kids in the hallway and, after the bell rang, chased stragglers toward their classrooms. 

Macy and Devon emerged from Pepper’s office about fifteen minutes into the school day, and for the first time, Darcy caught them actually smiling. “Please tell me you got to break in her new crayons,” she greeted as the kids trotted up to her desk. “There’s nothing in the world like first-day crayons. I’d steal Mister Rogers’s if I thought I could get away with it.”

Macy shook her head. “Not today. But I’ll ask next time. Maybe she’ll let us share with you.”

“Are you kidding? There’s no way Miss Potts is letting me near her supply this early in the year.” When the kids kind of giggled, Darcy leaned in and lowered her voice. “But hey, important question: want a Starburst for the road?”

* * *

"You know, I had high hopes that you'd learn a little style seven years later," Kate Bishop said, crossing her arms. "Good to know I was wrong."

Clint grinned. The initial first-day chaos had settled into a low hum after lunch, meaning that the kids had only had about seven hundred questions when Kate walked in. Dressed in slacks and a polo shirt (that she obviously hated), they'd guessed she was a student teacher or "somebody like Miss Danvers" before Clint introduced her as their new student helper. "She's doing an internship through the high school," he'd explained as they'd wriggled with more invasive questions. "She'll help you with anything you need."

"Including showing you how cool Mister Barton is," Kate'd joked, and the kids'd giggled.

The kids were working on their _getting to know you_ collages now, mini-posters they'd present to the class as a bonding exercise. Kate perched on the edge of Clint's desk, theoretically learning the roster while wrinkling her nose. "Seriously. Collared shirts with short sleeves went out of style at least decade ago."

"No respect even on your first day?" Clint wondered.

"Yeah, I guess you're right. I should respect my elders." He snorted, but she tossed a glance over her shoulder. "The fact I picked you is respect enough. Out of all the teachers in all the schools—"

"There are like, what, fifteen participating teachers?" Clint reminded her.

"—and I chose you from the line-up." She glanced back at the roster. "But back to the good stuff: you have anyone in mind for me to focus on while I'm here?"

Clint shrugged. "You're supposed to be helping me generally."

"Yeah, but I know how you work. There's always a couple kids on your list. Including me, back when I was young and impressionable."

He rolled his eyes, but he also scanned the room. Most the kids were pretty engaged in the activity, frantically cutting out pictures of their favorite things and pasting them to their card stock. They chattered occasionally—normal for the first day of school—and bickered a little over the glue sticks. None of them reminded him of the girl from seven years ago, an overachiever with a killer glare and giant black rain cloud of misery hanging over her head. 

He’d spent six weeks chipping at Kate’s façade before she’d shared about her mother’s death and so-called wicked stepmother. From that day on, they’d had a rare bond, the kind where Kate visited him on early release days and only occasionally cracked inappropriate jokes that he had to resist laughing at.

When she’d popped up at the end of the last school year with the internship form, he’d spilled coffee down his shirt. “You’re asking to hang out with me a couple afternoons a week?” he’d asked after sopping up the mess.

Kate’d rolled her eyes. “If you’re not excited about the free labor—”

“Oh, I’m excited,” he’d promised. “Just not sure whether to cry tears of joy or make sure you’re not some kind of pod person.”

Now, after a bunch of “dumb orientations about the rules” (a direct quote), Kate stood at his shoulder and followed his gaze around the room. He eventually landed on Ayana, an English language learner who kept glaring at her magazine as she cut out a picture of ice cream. 

Kate asked, “That one?”

"Maybe," Clint admitted. "She came in at the end of last year. And her English isn’t perfect, so—"

"Wait, you didn't immediately imprint on the kid who secretly needs you the most? You're losing your touch." Before he could protest, Kate dropped the roster on his desk and stood up. “I'm on it."

Clint frowned. "I planned on you just making a poster with them, not some kind of search-and-rescue mission."

She snatched a piece of cardstock off his desk. "Good thing I'm a master at improvisation, then," she countered, and she headed straight over to Ayana’s group of desks. 

Clint subtly rolled his eyes and left his desk to visit some of the other students. He chatted with Rodrigo about his love of soccer and learned all about Luci's new pug puppy, and all while trying hard not to check in on Kate and Ayana. After all, he'd agreed to a student aid for help, not because he wanted to hover. And he trusted Kate. 

Mostly.

But as Angie complained that the magazines he'd provided didn't include pictures of MarioKart or rhinoceroses (her two favorite things), Clint heard cackling from across the room. When he glanced over, he discovered Kate and Ayana giggling like old friends.

"Sorry, sorry," Kate said, holding up her hands. "Ayana told me a killer pirate joke."

Ayana immediately glanced down at her poster. Clint missed what she murmured, so he navigated over to her desk. "You into pirates?" he guessed.

She shrugged, and Kate nudged her until she looked over. "Show Mister Barton what you did on your poster. It's pretty cool."

When Ayana hesitated, the boy across from her said, "Yeah! She, like, made a pirate out of other pictures. It's awesome."

Ayana kept her head down, but she still spun her poster around for Clint to see. A tennis player from a full-page Lyrica ad now had a magic-marker eyepatch, a peg-leg cut out from a picture of a tree, and a red bandana that she'd surgically removed from a dog in a Purina ad. 

"That's great!" Clint said, and Ayana smiled shyly. "That's really creative. When you finish it up, you need to show Mister Rogers. He'd love it."

"I do?" Ayana asked, peering up at him. 

Clint grinned at her. "Totally."

Kate nudged her again, this time offering a high-five. She waited until Ayana reciprocated to wink at Clint, and he flashed her a quick thumbs-up. And as he walked away to check on his other students, he heard Ayana ask, "Do you want to hear my joke?"

"Yeah, tell the rest of your group," Kate encouraged, and Clint smiled.

* * *

Bucky face-planted into the sofa cushions, groaning both at his stupid exhaustion and the keys in his pants pocket digging into his hip. He rolled just far enough to the side to alleviate the second source of pain but had no intention of moving any further.

“You should at least change,” Steve mentioned.

Bucky could hear the soft brush of cotton and knew Steve was taking his own advice. As much as he loved watching his husband strip, not even that was enough motivation. Almost, but not quite.

“How am I going to do another year of this?” Bucky asked.

“One day at a time, just like you’ve done with every other student who’s made you want to pull out your hair before.”

“I’ve never had to have those kids twice,” Bucky pointed out. He loved Steve, but logic and encouragement weren’t what he needed right now. He needed vodka, sleep, and a time machine to zap him to the end of the school year.

As if reading Bucky’s thoughts, the traitorous husband had the audacity to say, “You know there’s two more after him, and if Jane and Thor have already requested you once…”

Bucky swore viciously into the throw pillow mashed into his face. It was a Russian phrase he’d picked up from Nat and he didn’t entirely know what it meant, but it felt good to say. “How do you do this?” Bucky asked. “You’ll have all three of them for years. How do you stay sane?”

Steve shrugged. Not that Bucky saw it, but he knew his husband well enough to know it’d happened. “Only see them for forty-five minutes a week plus recess duty. And we take turns watching over them on the playground.”

“He declared himself King Henry before I could even take attendance,” Bucky said. He knew he’d already told Steve about that bit at least three times, but it needed repeating.

Steve brushed a kiss against his cheek. “I know this isn’t what you want to hear, but you made me promise to remind you to check-in on your online classes when we got home today.” Bucky swore again, and Steve chuckled. His voice faded as he moved deeper into their house, probably to their bedroom. “Don’t kill the messenger.”

It took a little bit more pouting, but twenty minutes later, he was set up with his laptop at the kitchen table dressed in a well-worn t-shirt and gym shorts. Steve puttered around the kitchen prepping his daily keep-your-cancer-in-remission-juju smoothie whatever that Sarah had showed him. Bucky wasn’t entirely sure of its medicinal properties, but it made his husband and mother-in-law slightly more sane, so whatever. “Remind me why I’m doing this?” Bucky asked between blender pulses.

“Because you’ll be a great administrator,” Steve answered. And he meant it. Like, whole-heartedly meant it and answered without hesitation.

Bucky didn’t deserve him.

There was also the money, Bucky added silently. Education had a whole host of head-scratchers built into its system, but one of them was the fact that if a teacher wanted a pay bump, they had to pay out of pocket for yet another degree. While they’d get a raise, it would take years to recoup the cost of tuition paid. Bucky at least still had some GI bill money to pull from. All in all, the whole concept caused too many good teachers to leave the classroom for a desk in the front office just so they could maintain their not all that high standard of living.

Bucky logged into the online classroom, quickly reorienting himself to the changes the system had made to itself since he finished his masters degree five years ago. Clicking the link to one of the two classes he’d be taking this semester, he read through the professor’s welcome note on the home page. The first class assignment was to introduce yourself to your classmates. Bucky started composing a rough draft in his head as he clicked over to the message board part of the site, but then he froze. “Uh…” was all he could manage to say.

“What’s wrong?” Steve asked walking towards him. Bucky pointed at a classmate’s name, and Steve’s eyebrows rose. “Well, now you definitely have to get this degree just so I can watch this play out.”


	3. Labor and Delivery

“Why are you like this?” Clint grumbled, rubbing his eyes. “You’re spoiled rotten. You eat better than most people. Hell, Phil bought you a Casper mattress. And this is our reward?”

Birdie stopped scratching at the door, peered up at him, and whined.

Pitifully.

For about the tenth time that night.

Clint swore and unlocked the back door.

In retrospect, he probably shouldn’t have left his gas-station taquito on the coffee table after work. According to Phil, he shouldn’t have bought the taquito at all; twice, his husband’d sneered and declared it a “harbinger of indigestion and heartburn.” But they’d stayed late to hammer out some changes to this year’s Accelerated Reader program, and Clint’d needed something to tide him over until dinner.

Birdie’d had the same idea, apparently.

He groaned and scrubbed a hand through his hair, trying to wake up enough to watch his idiot dog eat (and throw up) another pound of grass. He felt like a zombie. And all because Phil had elbowed him awake, signed _your problem_ , and rolled right over, leaving Clint to shove in his hearing aids and go deal with a miserable Birdie. 

“Your dad thinks this one’s on me,” Clint said, and the dog blinked up at him. “Yeah, you’re probably right. But if he asks, it’s your sweet potato food, not the taquito.”

She snorted and turned back to the grass.

About five minutes later, just as Clint started to fall asleep standing up, somebody touched the small of his back. He jumped and spun around, fists raised—and almost tripped over his feet when he recognized Phil. “Don’t do that!” he chided. “I thought you were going to murder me.”

“I’m telling Darcy to stop recommending true crime podcasts,” Phil replied drily. Despite his terrible bedhead, he looked suspiciously awake. “She okay?”

“At this rate, we don’t need to mow the lawn.” He frowned, but Clint waved him off. “She’s fine. Threw up a little, but I think she’s mostly nauseous.”

“From that gas-station nightmare? You don’t say.”

“Look, just because I can’t resist a triple-jalapeño taquito doesn’t mean—”

A faint chime, like a distant bell, stopped Clint dead in his tracks. He honestly stopped breathing for a second as Phil dug into his pocket and pulled out his cell phone. Normally, they kept both their phones on silent in the middle of the night. 

That’d changed in the last couple weeks. And tonight—

The screen cast a weird white-blue glow on Phil’s face as he read the incoming text. Or rather, as he squinted blearily at the display. Clint shifted his weight a couple times, but eventually, he lost his patience and pried the phone out of his husband’s hands. “You’re blind without your glasses,” he said, “and I don’t like the suspense.”

Phil rolled his eyes, but Clint barely noticed. Because on the screen, he read:

**Bruce Banner:** _heading to the hospital. regular contractions. we’ll keep you updated._

“He texts like Tony when he’s freaking out,” Clint said—but more importantly, he handed the phone back to Phil. He held off on his borderline idiotic smile until his husband finished reading it. “Sounds like he’s finally coming. Nat’s gonna be relieved.”

“If he’s even born today,” Phil pointed out. Clint knocked their shoulders together, kind of like scolding him, and they spent a couple seconds watching the dog. At least, until Phil added, “You going back to bed?”

Clint snorted. “Between that text and the dog? No way. I’m in it for the long haul.”

* * *

Sighing, Pepper settled into her desk chair. On most days, her office felt like a sanctuary, a quiet, safe space for her and the students to sit and talk. Or, depending on Sitwell’s mood, for her to play good cop while he glared from the corner. Today, though, the peace felt tenuous. Like a ship caught in the eye of a hurricane, maybe, or an airbase seconds before the red alert.

She took a deep breath, reached for her coffee mug, and—

“You got the text, didn’t you?”

She paused, mug almost to her mouth, and studied the shadow of her husband looming in the doorway. Seconds of silence ticked by, broken only by the burbling of her diffuser on the bookshelf.

“Here’s the thing: Bruce isn’t here,” Tony said, and Pepper heard as much as felt his anxiety. “Worse, Big Red’s not here, either. And just now, in the hallway, Barton looked at me like he expected me to explode. So either he ate another cheese danish in the computer lab, or—”

“Breathe, Tony.” He sucked in a long breath, but his shoulders shook. “We talked about this.”

“No,” he corrected, “you and Natasha talked about this. Behind my back and without my permission, which, while deserved, isn’t filling me with a whole lot of marital confidence right now.” She rolled her eyes as he drummed his fingers against the doorjamb. “There’s a phone tree. I know there is. Coulson as the first point of contact, since he’s the most responsible, and filtering down to the rest of us. I’d say you’re— Third? Barnes probably ranks higher, thanks to his best friend status, but—”

“You’re still not breathing,” Pepper pointed out.

Tony threw up his hands. “Is this baby coming today, or what?” 

Pepper bit back a sigh. He had her dead to rights, of course; they had created a phone tree with Phil at the top. And last night, at a little after three, he’d texted Pepper: _They’ve headed to the hospital. Bruce said he’ll try to keep us updated. Get some sleep._

Next to her, Tony’d snorted and rolled over. She’d watched him sleep for a good twenty minutes before she’d finally settled back down.

Now, he watched her, his whole body tense.

“In my defense,” she said, holding up a hand, “you’re impossible on only three hours of sleep—”

“I knew it!” He jabbed a finger at her as he stalked into the office. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me! When’d he text you? Middle of the night? Too late for you to, what, interrupt my beauty sleep?” He planted his hands on her desk, and she crossed her arms. “You know, when Jessica Cage popped out her kid—”

“You missed the first three e-mail announcements?” Pepper counted, and he scowled at her. “Look, I’m sorry I didn’t want you to pace a trench in the floor—”

Tony gestured broadly to his chest. “Do I look like a man who’d pace all night?”

“Since you marched in here and practically demanded to read my text history? Yes.” He shot her another sour look even as he, predictably, started wandering around her office. “They headed to the hospital at around three. Bruce’ll try to keep everyone updated, but there’s a good chance we won’t hear anything until he’s here. In the meantime, you need to—”

“Go easy on the caffeine and resist the urge to blow up his phone, yeah, I know.” She tilted her head at his dismissive hand-wave, and he frowned. “What? You’re not the only one capable of secret meetings about managing my worst instincts. Bruce and I hit the highlights over milkshakes.”

“I’m not worried about your caffeine intake as much as you taking out your anxiety on other people. Or, worse, Phil’s computer.” He snorted. “I’m serious, Tony. We’re all in the same boat, and the last thing we need is—”

“I solemnly and whole-heartedly swear that I’ll resist dismantling anything bigger than a breadbox,” Tony said, raising his right hand. She shook her head at him, but he seemed— Well. Not quite normal, but less anxious than she’d initially expected. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go, I don’t know, clean every keyboard in the computer lab.”

She cringed. “Tony—”

“Not in a destructive way!” he promised, immediately ducking out the door.

Pepper sighed. “Please let us survive this day,” she murmured, and reached for her candy dish.

* * *

“Will they cut Ms. Romanoff open?”

Jessica Drew, trained teacher and at least moderately reasonable human, almost ran smack into the nearest wall. After she regained her composure (and wished for a vodka slushie), she asked, “I’m sorry, what?” 

In response, the most curious girl in her class, Maisie Adams, shrugged nonchalantly. “When my mom had my baby brother,” she said, “he wouldn’t come out. They waited and waited, but it took so long that they had to cut my mom open and pull him out.”

The rest of Maisie’s math group cringed dramatically. “That sounds gross,” Becky decided.

“No, my dad said it was really cool!” Maisie defended. “They held up my brother like in _The Lion King_ and everything.” Torrance mimicked raising Simba over his head, but Maisie kept peering at Jessica. “Are they going to do that for Ms. Romanoff?”

“Well, for one, I don’t know when Ms. Romanoff’s having that baby,” Jessica fibbed. “And, for two: do your math, please.”

* * *

“I didn’t think boys _had_ babies.”

Peter squeaked and almost dropped a box of newly purchased glassware on his foot. When he spun around, he found Alva Odinson hovering in the doorway to his classroom.

Well, storage closet, technically.

She also squinted suspiciously at him, her arms crossed.

Peter raised his eyebrows at her. “Shouldn’t you be in class?” 

“I left my library book at the library,” she reported. “My teacher told me to go get it.”

“Last time I checked, the library’s the other way.”

Alva considered his answer for about three milliseconds before continuing, “My teacher told us in class that you know all about science. Kind of like Mama, only Mama’s super-duper smart.” For some reason, the way she emphasized _super-duper_ actually stung a little. “But since Mama’s at work, I can ask you.”

“About boys having babies?” Peter questioned, and Alva nodded earnestly. “Well, uh, you’re pretty much on the money,” he said after a couple seconds. “Men—well, human men who’ve always been men, I should say—don’t give birth to babies.”

Alva narrowed her eyes even more. “Are you sure?”

Peter almost laughed. “Pretty sure, yeah. Why?”

“Because Mr. Rogers told my teacher this morning that Ms. Romanoff and Dr. Banner are both having babies today, even though Dr. Banner is a boy.”

Peter physically felt the smile fly off his face. “You know what?” he replied. “I think that’s definitely a question for your super-duper smart mom.”

* * *

Darcy could feel her earrings brush against her shoulders, and they weren’t even ridiculously long today. She tried that single-nostril breathing technique Jonathan from _Queer Eye_ had taught her, but it didn’t help a bit.

Her inbox dinged again—Sitwell. In an effort to keep his abundant, nervous energy to himself, he’d barricaded himself in his office, attempting to work on a grant application ahead of schedule for once. But he’d apparently lost his damn mind and couldn’t remember anything about everything, and consequently e-mailed Darcy every ninety seconds looking for information that she knew he had in his office somewhere.

Fury wasn’t any better. He’d come stalking in after a district-wide principal meeting, dropped his briefcase—who still used a briefcase, by the way—and went off to observe teachers. “Why would you be that mean to teachers?” Darcy asked, taking one for the team. “No one needs your anxious glaring today.” 

He’d stared her down for a moment, and Darcy wondered just how long the list of reasons why he would fire her was and how much she was adding to it in this moment before he’d huffed and went to his office to handle parent phone calls. She mentally ran through the list of phone messages he had on his desk already in this still-new school year. Darcy was fine with those ridiculous helicopter parents getting phone calls from Fury in this level of moody.

It was sweet, she knew deep down, that these gruff men cared so much about Bruce and Natasha. The entire staff was on tenterhooks. She considered for half a second to Google average length for childbirth and then considered what images would pop up in the top banner of results. 

No. She did not need that. Not even the chance of it.

She’d finally cajoled the men to take a rare business lunch out and discuss…anything really. Just get out of the building. The office had finally calmed down when Stark came in. Without acknowledging her, he headed straight to the copier and took off the front panel. 

“Uh, what are you doing?” Darcy asked, fear seeping into her veins. If there was one thing that could bring a school to a grinding halt, it was a malfunctioning copier. She’d been around the last time the copier died; it was beyond ugly.

“Routine maintenance,” Tony answered, his hands already deep into the machine.

Darcy opened her mouth to retort, but snapped it shut. Instead, she calmly walked down the hall to Pepper’s office. She knocked on the door, and semi-regretted interrupting Pepper. Her essential oil diffuser was spitting lavender and a few other scents into the air—Pepper’s “everyone needs to chill the fuck out” special mix. “Umm, your husband is spending his planning period dismantling the copier.”

Pepper sighed and considered her options. “I promise to be the one who handles all the tech support calls if he breaks something. Believe me when I say it will be so much worse if you kick him off of that thing than if you let him mess with it.” She gathered up her small collection of Pyrex dishes that contained her lunch. “I’ll supervise to make sure things don’t get too messy.”

“Thanks,” Darcy replied. 

She went back to her desk and did a little more prep work on the e-mail bulletin that would go out once Baby Romanoff-Banner arrived. She had several drafts going with varying amounts of privacy. They ranged from one that was just a notification that simply stated Mrs. Parker would be making her return for six weeks as the gym substitute teacher to one that included space for a picture and all the birth stats. None of them were overly cutesy. Like she wanted to piss off a post-partum Natasha.

There was a loud crash from behind her immediately followed by Pepper and Tony swearing in unison.

Darcy was going to have the mother of all knots in her neck by the end of the day. This baby better not take too long, for her sake. And for the sake of Natasha’s body. Or maybe slow was better? Ease out… You know what? No. Don’t go there.

Aiden, a third grader and frequent flyer of Helen’s, was making his way out of the nurse’s station. Darcy lured him over to her desk with a gummy bear (secretly a vitamin, but Helen said it was cool to dose kids with things like that). “How long did it take for you to be born?” Darcy asked the boy.

“Like five years,” he answered.

* * *

“I bet it’s twins!” Tara announced, waving her hands and nearly poking Brynn in the face with her pencil. “Surprise twins that nobody knew about. And Ms. Romanoff will give them really good names. Like Kennedy or Brandalyn or Sienna.”

Even while helping Alma, Carol very nearly threw up in her mouth. “That doesn’t sound like your reading response, Tara.”

Unsurprisingly, the fourth grader ignored her. “And then,” she continued, “she’ll dress them all in pink and purple—”

“And glitter,” Brynn suggested.

Tara nodded enthusiastically. “Right. And nobody’ll be able to tell them apart, because they’re twins, so they’ll switch places all the time.” 

Brynn beamed. “Yeah, and when they’re older? They’ll play tricks by going to the wrong classes. It’ll make all the teachers crazy!” She spun around on her chair to look at Carol. “Won’t that be funny, Ms. Danvers? You won’t know the difference!”

Carol shook her head. “I think somebody needs to hide your _Parent Trap_ DVD before things get out of hand,” she replied.

Tara scowled and glanced over at Brynn. “You have a DVD about trapping your parents?” she asked.

Brynn shrugged. “I don’t know what she’s talking about.”

Carol sighed and resisted the urge to rest her forehead against Alma’s desk. “New rule: no making me feel old,” she decided. “Back to work.”

* * *

“High-fives for everybody!” Sam offered, raising his hand as a crowd of first graders ran by. 

Honestly, out of all his after-school duties, he liked the bus line the best. High-fives and fist-bumps for almost all the kids, occasional stories about somebody snorting chocolate milk at lunch, fresh air after being locked in the classroom all day, and usually, decent gossip from his coworkers.

A second class of first graders poured out of the buildings, and one—a curly-haired boy Sam didn’t know—skipped to a stop in front of him. The kid’s smile was blinding. “Guess what! We get to do gymnastics in gym class tomorrow!”

Despite his confusion, Sam kept right on grinning. “Yeah?”

The kid nodded hard enough that his hair flopped around. “Yeah! Ms. Romanoff said that after she had the baby, we’d do gymnastics. Cartwheels and flips and everything!” He bounced up and down like he was trying to escape gravity. “Everybody says she’s gonna have the baby today. So tomorrow, we’ll have gymnastics!” 

Sam flinched. “Uh, actually—” he said, but the kid’d already run off to his bus. He stood there a second, flabbergasted, before he finally sighed. “You’re in for a rough couple weeks, kiddo.”

* * *

Steve’s fingertips made small circles on Bucky’s denim-clad thigh until his nerves reached that point of feeling tickled and numb at the same time. His husband sat relatively still, which was impressive considering how uncomfortable these plastic chairs were. Steve wondered if the waiting room was the hospital’s attempt at sending away voyeurs and giving new parents some breathing room. The area was broken down into small areas demarcated by half walls that were lined with plastic chairs in worse condition the ones in his classroom. But at least they were created for someone his height. 

“I want to thank you all for never putting any of us through this before now,” Tony announced as he paced the small width of their waiting area. “Not that I would be this anxious or caring in general if you were the parent in question,” he added with a nod in Phil’s direction.

“Mutual,” the librarian retorted. Clint ran a hand up and down Phil’s spine, and Steve wondered if it was more to calm Phil or himself. 

“You two could have kids,” Tony said to Steve and Bucky. “It would be ridiculously handsome, even if it was an adopted girl. You’d just rub off on them.”

“Tony,” Pepper warned, but exhaustion was evident in her voice.

The six of them had been running on coffee, adrenaline, and anxiety since early this morning. That was twenty-two hours ago. Steve knew none of them would call in for sub tomorrow, but he also knew that none of them would be able to function as well as they should. And, if they all had their wish, they’d be right back here as soon as they could in hopes of holding a newborn. Or at least Bucky, Phil, and maybe Pepper would. The rest would just gladly watch from a safe distance.

“Seriously,” Tony continued, “when are you two Ken dolls going to have kids? I mean, I know there’s extra steps and all that, but if you need help with the funds, I’d be happy to help. Consider it a research grant for an attempt at world’s most attractive baby.”

“No more coffee,” Pepper said, her head leaned back against the half wall, eyes closed.

“We’ll have one when you all have one,” Steve answered. “That goes for you guys, too,” he said to Phil and Clint.

He hoped he’d injected enough humor into his voice so that everyone—especially Bucky—knew he was joking. His husband wanted kids. Badly. Steve wasn’t so sure. There was a lot to keep in mind and consider, and now was definitely not the time to think about it. He kind of hoped Bucky knew that too and wasn’t going to let their current environment make his desire even greater.

It took Steve’s numb fingertips a half-beat too long to realize Bucky’s thigh had tightened, and before he knew it, Bucky was standing up. Steve opened his mouth to start apologizing and explaining that he was joking when he followed Bucky’s locked-in gaze. Through a window in the double doors that led back to patient rooms, Steve spotted a mess of dark curls. “He might just be telling us to go home for the night,” Steve warned quietly.

“I know,” Bucky whispered back. Steve wondered if his husband would actually listen and heed to the request if it was given to him.

The other men caught on, and Tony gently nudged Pepper’s shoulders just before Bruce walked out the doors.

Steve had no idea how huge his idiotic grin had been on his face when he married Bucky until they had their wedding photos back. But even then, the images hadn’t done Steve’s insides justice. He felt like he was about to burst from everything in his life going right and being wonderful for once. That was the look on Bruce’s face.

“He’s here,” he announced as he approached them, holding his phone out to show an image of newborn mid-scream.

* * *

Natasha grazed her finger along the curve of her son’s cheek. His lips twitched for a second at the new sensation, but it wasn’t enough to rouse him from sleep. She knew she should rest like he was, but she couldn’t stop watching him. 

All those clichés and stories she’d heard about love and room and her heart. It was true. She had no idea how to articulate the emotional and mental change she’d gone through today, and she might never know how, but it had happened for sure.

“Hey,” Bruce whispered as he came back in. “We still okay?”

“Yeah,” Natasha breathed. “You send everyone home?”

Bruce clearly didn’t even try and tamper his grin. “After I showed some pictures. Darcy wants to know how many details she can send out to everyone.”

Natasha, still not looking up from the baby’s face, was torn. On the one hand, her private life was always something she fought tooth and nail to keep to herself. Yet she and Bruce had made a damn cute kid, and she wanted to show him off. “I’ll call her tomorrow. Or later today, I guess.”

The hospital bed dipped slightly as Bruce sat down next to her. “Want the first shift of sleep? You’ve more than earned it.”

“We could both try and sleep,” Natasha pointed out.

“I think I’d rather hold him. I know skin-to-skin is best, but skin-to-chest hair works too, right?”

A sleepy smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. As gently as possibly, she shifted the baby, who was snuggled against her own bare chest, into Bruce’s waiting arms. Natasha once again took inventory of their creation. He wasn’t chunky, thank goodness, but she thought she spotted the potential for him to get there. His head was covered in dark hair, and he distinctly had Bruce’s mouth. The rest of his features she’d have to parse out when she hadn’t been up for a day straight and given birth. His fingers and toes were impossibly tiny, but the nurse swore he was average size and weight. He’d passed all his test with flying colors. 

He was here, healthy, and hers. Theirs, she corrected. She knew she should sleep, but she wasn’t ready to let this day go.

But her eyelids weighed a good twenty pounds each, and she could feel sleep taking her over. She placed her finger in her son’s palm and his fingers instinctively wrapped around the end of her index finger. She leaned over and kissed his hand and then his cheek and forehead. “Sweet dreams, Gabe.”


	4. Adjustment Periods

“I’m still not over the fact you suggested we have pho, you know,” Tony greeted as Rhodey climbed out of his car. “It’s sad noodles and meat in broth. It’s not even worthy of a normal date, let alone a man date.”

He sighed. “For the last time, all I suggested is we skip the diner. You’re the one who fixated on pho.”

“Okay, first, I don’t understand your grudge against my favorite diner. You know they founded it in 1971, right? Same year ‘Proud Mary’ hit the Billboard charts. You’re not gonna find that kind of history at Pho Real.” Rhodey rolled his eyes as Tony led them straight past the hostess stand to an enormous booth in the back. “And, second, I fixated on pho because I know how you think. Because every time I suggest something nutritious and delicious—”

“We usually eat hot wings, Tony.”

“—you whine about how we need something green and crunchy.” Rhodey tried to protest, but right away, his buddy flagged down a waitress. “Yeah, we’re going to need an order of your triple-loaded chili cheese fries and a couple milkshakes. And don’t skimp on the whipped cream, either.”

The waitress planted a hand on her hip as she studied Rhodey. For a second, he felt stripped bare, like the way his training officers at boot camp’d ferreted out all his weaknesses just by staring him down. Finally, she asked, “What happened to your other friend?”

Tony shrugged. “Paternity leave. Lucky for me, I found a substitute on Craigslist. Low rent, zero upkeep, and an insatiable need to harass me about vegetables.” 

Rhodey shot him a dirty look, but as usual, Tony brushed him off with a flap of his hand. The waitress, meanwhile, scribbled down their order. “I think I like your other friend better,” she decided.

“And that is totally fair.” Tony waited until she walked away, ponytail bouncing, to grumble, “I hope you know you just robbed of us of complementary onion rings.”

“Because I didn’t flirt with the waitress?” Rhodey asked.

Tony actually cackled. “Are you kidding? Gladys’d eviscerate you with a butter knife if you tried to flirt with her. No, it’s because of your whole shoulders-and-chest look. Great for Danvers, I’m sure, but lousy for charming waitresses who’re into the ‘hapless teddy bear’ aesthetic.”

Rhodey shook his head, unwilling to dignify that line of bullshit with an eye roll, and a bus boy stopped by with a couple glasses of water. He’d been a little surprised when Tony’d invited him to his traditional after-meeting “man date;” after all, Rhodey had no business going anywhere near Tony’s meetings, and frankly, he’d always assumed that the ritual belonged exclusively to Tony and Bruce. 

But as the time ticked by and Tony kept on rambling about his work-week, Rhodey realized maybe the whole man date thing had less to do with his meetings and more with having an outlet.

He waited until Tony grabbed a couple fries to ask, “How’re you doing?”

Tony blinked. “Like I just said—”

“You meant while you talked without really _saying_ anything?” Rhodey challenged, and his buddy snapped his mouth shut. They stared each other down for a second before he said, “Tony. Seriously. How’s it going?”

Tony swirled his straw in his milkshake. “He’s a really cute baby.”

“I don’t—”

“I’m around kids all the time, but not babies. Far as I’m concerned, babies are creepy red potato aliens. But every time I see a picture of this kid with this super dad friend of mine, there’s no urge to splash holy water at him and run away. Not that I wanna hold him or anything,” he added, raising a hand. “Definitely leaving that to Pepper until he learns how his neck works.” 

Rhodey cocked an eyebrow. “Then what’s the problem?”

“You mean besides how liking the kid means I feel ridiculously guilty about my allegedly misplaced jealousy and insecurity?” Tony scrubbed a hand over his face. “I guess I’d just braced myself to be bitter about the kid, not to _like_ him. And to miss Bruce without feeling, well, kinda lonely.”

The lost look on Tony’s face twisted Rhodey’s stomach in a knot, but within seconds, the guy shook it off. “But enough of that!” he announced, jabbing a fry at Rhodey. “Milkshake man dates aren’t for feelings; they’re for talking about work, wives, and, in your very specific case, terrifying blondes with serial killer cats.”

Rhodey sighed. “He killed three crickets and a moth, Tony.”

“Yeah, and Danvers bragged about it for a week. She clearly likes his murderous streak.” He flopped back and stretched his arms along the top of the booth. “C’mon. Tell me again how she’s the perfect woman and you’re forever in my debt. I’m listening.”

“There is no way I’m going that far,” Rhodey assured him, and grabbed another fry.

* * *

“If you run your fingers through your hair anymore, you will have a legitimate afro,” Natasha whispered.

Bruce kept his eyes on the bassinet by her side of the bed where a milk-drunk Gabe slept. “Why did I think taking five days off at the beginning would be enough?”

“Because then you get to take another five weeks at home with him when my maternity leave ends,” Natasha reminded him. “And then, he gets to start child care when he’s almost three months old instead of just six weeks.”

“I’m going to be a useless teacher in between now and staying home with him.”

“It’s kindergarten. Are they really going to learn that much anyway? All you do is color and make macaroni art, right?” Her verbal jab brought a hint of a smile to his face. Those words, quoted by the same people who complained about teachers having all summer off and not doing any work after three in the afternoon, were on the short list of things that could start Bruce on a tirade.

“You heard from May?” Bruce asked. “Think she’s doing alright subbing for you?”

“Scared that if she hates covering for me she’ll go back on covering for you?”

“Absolutely,” he said.

“I think I heard something about country line dancing from someone,” Natasha replied. “Can’t remember who, but it’s somewhere in the two thousand texts and e-mails on my phone I haven’t responded to.”

Bruce moved around the bed to lay down beside Natasha. “I’m waiting for my phone to explode from all the ignored notifications. I’ve only responded to about four percent of Tony’s manic texts. And that’s only so he won’t go insane. I’m sure he’s still trying to contain plenty of crazy as it is.”

Natasha burrowed deeper into the bed. “Pepper can handle it. And he does have other friends, you know.”

“Yeah,” he sighed. “I need to be doing something right now. Laundry, cooking, cleaning…”

“Sleep,” she ordered.

“The books say only the mother is supposed to sleep when the baby does.”

“You’ve gotten up every time I have since we got home from the hospital,” she pointed out. “You’re going to collapse if you keep this up, especially when you go back to work on Monday.”

“We can just have nap and quiet reading time all day,” he said, his words already starting to trail off.

Natasha wriggled his already beat-up glasses from his face and put them under the edge of his pillow knowing that when he was exhausted, he didn’t move in his sleep and they would be safe there. Exhaustion was pulling at her too, but she wanted to take a moment to enjoy this: the house they’d worked all summer to make a home, the late summer light dancing on the ceiling, the sound of the two people she loved more than anything she could imagine asleep on either side of her. She knew the peace would be short-lived and was determined to soak up as much as she could before chaos resumed. 

Her smart watch buzzed on her wrist, a text from Steve. _Let us know if you guys need help with anything for Saturday’s football party_.

Natasha grabbed her phone from the nightstand and swiped open the screen to start typing. _You voted by the group as least intrusive? New official spokesperson?_

**Steve** : _Something like that_ he answered with a blushing emoji. _I’m also supposed to remind you that you are under no obligation to come or stay for more than five minutes. There has been a terrifying group chat about what food is and isn’t good for nursing mothers, if you want to weigh on the menu. If only one of you comes and the other stays home with the baby, we will do our best to not outwardly show disappointment. Phil has his office cleaned up if you need a quiet room for Gabe to law down or nurse. And Clint basically bought stock in Purell so we’ll all be thoroughly sanitized if you’re okay with passing the baby around. And no one will complain if only select people get to hold him._

_This time <— Buck. Also where’s my picture of the day?_

_Sorry. Distracted me and took the phone out of my hands._

**Natasha** : _I’d ask for a picture of what he used to distract you, but I saw him naked more times in college than I can count_

**Steve** : _It wasn’t that_

**Natasha** : _Not this time anyway. All three of us are planning on making it to the party. I highly doubt we will be on time, but we will try._ She paused her typing to triple check that her phone was on silent and the flash was off before snapping a quick shot of Gabe sleeping. Which, admittedly, looked like the same picture she’d sent out for the last four days, but the kid either did that or ate, and Natasha didn’t that photo floating around. One day he’d do more stuff, supposedly. _Here, pass this one around. See you Saturday._

* * *

“This is stupid,” Greer whined, toeing at one of the masking tape lines May Parker’d spent three hours over the weekend perfecting. “I don’t need to know how to dance, and nobody dances like this.”

“Nobody you know, you mean,” May corrected, and the girl huffed. “And what’s the rule from the first day of class, Greer?”

The fourth grader wrinkled her nose. “You’re not our real teacher. You’re just a substitute.”

“Still have a teaching certificate and the ability to send you down to Mister Sitwell, too,” May reminded her, but she just crossed her arms. May glanced down the rest of the line, where twenty-one fourth graders waited impatiently for instructions. “Anybody here remember what Miss Parkers’s first day rule is? Greer forgot.”

Becky’s hand rocketed into the air. “If you quit before you try it, you have to sit by yourself and do math.”

A boy that May had never met before that morning scowled. “How much math?”

“All of the math,” Becky said, and the boy snapped his mouth shut.

May resisted her urge to grin. “And trust me, the math I brought today is much, much harder than line dancing,” she said as her eyes settled back on Greer. The girl heaved a sigh and settled into place. “Good, looks like we’re all on the same page. Everybody ready?”

The chorus of mildly excited voices washed over her, and she grinned. For the most part, May enjoyed retirement. She still woke up early, but she got to read the paper and savor her coffee instead of rushing out the door. She met her friends for lunch on Wednesdays, had the occasional dinner with Barney, and sometimes, she stayed in her pajamas all day. Her yard looked immaculate. Her house had never been cleaner.

And some days, the boredom drove her absolutely crazy.

Walking students through the building block steps of a good line dance felt good. Better, really, than a club sandwich with Lucy and Adina at their country club. She hadn’t realized how much she missed being around children until she’d walked back into the building with a binder full of line dance curriculum and a roll of masking tape.

And since the kids really liked—

“Stop running into me!” somebody shouted, and May glanced over just in time to see Henry Odinson shove the boy next to him. May remembered them chattering before class, but now, they both looked red faced and angry. 

Henry balled his fists. “You’re pushing me on purpose!”

“You started it!” the other boy—Nathan, May thought—shouted, squaring his shoulders. “You tripped me, and you laughed, and I pushed you back!” 

Henry bristled, but right away, May stepped between the boys. “That’s enough,” she said firmly. They opened their mouths in unison, ready to argue, but she held up a hand. “I’m going to assume you both didn’t hear the part about standing arm’s length away at the start of the dance. Probably because you were talking to each other. Right?”

They looked at each other, and then at the floor. “Yeah,” Henry muttered.

“And that you thought it’d be funny to push each other, but it got too rough?”

Nathan crossed his arms. “Kinda.”

“Okay. So, how do you think we should solve this problem?” The kids glanced up at May, wide eyed and blinking, and she shrugged. “Like Greer said, I’m not your real teacher.   
I don’t have to fix this like Miss Romanoff would. I’d rather leave it up to you.”

The boys stared blankly at each other for a few seconds. Finally, Henry shrugged. “Say we’re sorry?” he suggested.

“And stand at opposite ends of the line for the rest of class?” Nathan tagged on.

May tapped her chin as though she really needed to think about the answer. “And I call your parents to let them know you decided to shove each other,” she added. They scowled, but when she raised an eyebrow, they both nodded reluctantly. “Good solution! Alright, everybody, back in line. We’re going to try the electric slide, next.”

At the end of the day and after a train wreck of first graders, May picked up her phone to see a text message from Natasha. _Bruce wants me to check and see how substitute teaching is treating you_ , she said.

May chuckled and finished stretching out her back. _Show me a picture of that baby, and I think I’ll probably survive._

* * *

Carol stood from her desk with a growl of frustration. The excitement of the beginning of the year was wearing off, and if this level of crazy was going to be her new normal for the year, she was going to have to pull a lot more gray hairs from her scalp while stopped at red lights. She considered visiting Clint, but he and Phil had already rushed out as soon as their contracts allowed—for the first time in recorded history—to go meet Gabe Banner. Carol found herself wandering around the lower floor of the school, which was a space she never spent much time in unless she was in the office for a parent meeting or talking down an anxious kid.

The walls outside Steve’s art room were covered with illustrations of students’ dream school buildings. One sported hot pink brick, and a number depicted ice cream trucks in the parking lot instead of busses. 

“You look lost.”

Sam’s voice, still new enough that it took her half a second to place, brought her out of her reverie. “Little bit, yeah. How are you doing so far this year?”

He shrugged. “I do this thing where I don’t complain about a new job for the first month I’m in it. Just focus on the good stuff.”

“I don’t think I could last for more than five minutes,” Carol admitted.

“You weren’t raised by my grandma. She did not tolerate anyone griping about anything in her house. Unless she was doing it, but we were all too scared of her to point out that little fact.”

She nodded. “Sounds like my kind of woman.”

Sam’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “You want to date my grandma?”

“No,” Carol laughed. “I’m in the minority of straight people here.”

“That’s right. I heard you’re dating a brother,” Sam said with a sly, gap-toothed grin. “If that doesn’t work out, let me know.”

His humor was infectious, or else she’d point out how everyone in the building needed to attend extra sexual harassment trainings. But Pepper didn’t need that on her plate. “Don’t tell me you’re another of those ‘date all the co-workers’ type.”

“No, just the ‘date beautiful women’ type,” Sam answered. “You ever been proposed to?”

“What?” Carol asked flatly, her pulse rising. She immediately began to attempt to connect the dots between Sam and Clint, the only person at work who knew about the diamond ring that rested against her chest.

“One of my kids, Danielle, proposes to me every day. Super sweet girl with Downs. Watches too many Lifetime movies with her mom. Have to give her credit, she has yet to propose the same way twice. Thinking about keeping a log of each of them, and maybe turn it into some blog that could become a book deal. With mom’s approval of course. Now wouldn’t that be a killer Lifetime movie?”

Carol missed half of what he’d said trying to get her heart rate back under control. “Can’t say I’ve ever had a student ask me to marry them.”

“Shame,” Sam told her. “Really does wonders for improving your day.”

An hour later, Carol was sitting on Rhodey’s couch waiting for him to come home. She picked at her nail polish in an attempt to channel her nerves, then swore under her breath at the mess of red flecks she’d made on the cushions and carpet. Rhodey walked into the kitchen through the garage to find her on her hands and knees cleaning up after herself. “You alright?” he asked cautiously.

“No,” she answered honestly. “I know the whole ‘let’s keep the engagement secret’ was my idea, but I’m regretting it. It’s a constant anxiety battle at work trying to not let anyone know and worrying about if someone finds out.” She paused to sigh. “You’re going to have to tell Tony.”

There was the slightest hint of surprise on Rhodey’s face. “You sure you’re ready for that? I’ll do all I can to tell him that we don’t need, or even want, him to be our wedding planner, but you know he’s just going to ignore that. We could elope. Or go to the courthouse tomorrow and just get this whole engagement phase over with.”

“And make Tony ten times more butt hurt? No thanks.” She ran her hand through her hair. “Why are people so obsessed with weddings? I just want a good marriage,” she muttered. 

Rhodey stepped into her space and kissed his way from her forehead to her lips, keeping his touches sweet and barely there. “I’ll break it Tony as gently as I can, and then we can start marriage planning.”

* * *

“Engagement ring costs,” Wade suggested.

Darcy shook her head. “Covered that last week while you were at figure-drawing class. I learned more than I ever wanted to know about the importance of conflict-free stones.” Wade snorted and reached for the colander. “Lack of support for the STEM program?”

“He’s texting with our scientific wonder twins almost every day,” Wade replied. “If he feels unsupported, he needs scaffolding. Well, that or somebody lightly cupping his—”

Darcy spun to point her paring knife in his general direction. “No. We’ve been over this. No talking about Peter’s ‘family jewels’ at dinner.”

He blinked. “Uh, in case you haven’t noticed, we’re still cooking.”

“And in case you haven’t noticed, I’m armed and dangerous.” Wade snorted, almost like a challenge—until she stabbed a tomato a little harder than necessary. “Go back to talking about scaffolding.”

“Darcy Lewis: sucking the ‘fun’ out of ‘footloose and funky-fresh’ since five minutes back,” Wade muttered, but he still hip-checked her as he wandered over to check on the pasta.

Darcy smiled a little as she dumped tomatoes into the salad bowl. Stupid as it sounded in her head, she considered roommate dinner a sort of sacred time where, for an hour, she and her house-boys drank cheap beer and complained about work, dating, and the latest developments on _Grey’s Anatomy_. 

(Well, okay, Peter stayed out of that discussion.) 

And since Peter’d picked up some tutoring hours to save up for Gwen’s engagement ring, the run-up to dinner now counted as her only alone time with Wade. He liked to help cook, he joked around a lot, he reached all the tall shelves, and his grins—

The thought, uninvited and totally ridiculous, jumped into her head without her permission. She ground it to dust with her proverbial heel as she grabbed the red onion. “How’s the hot model, by the way?”

Wade stopped humming to frown. “Who?”

“The guy from your figure-drawing class, remember?” He shook his head, his brow creasing, and she sighed. “The hunk of man meat with the unforgettable shoulders, Wade.”

“Oh, him!” Wade chirped, and Darcy rolled her eyes. “Yeah, turns out he is super married. Like, the kind of married where he’d probably go on a _Taken_ -style revenge mission if anything ever happened to his family.” He shrugged. “So, I’m back on the market. Know anybody who might be interested? Survey says I’m a cheap date and an easy lay.”

Darcy almost choked on her tongue. Luckily, Peter burst in through the back door and saved her from, well, herself. “I hate soccer moms,” he declared, tossing down his messenger bag. “I hate their haircuts, and their SUVs, and their decision to name all of their kids Paxton and leave me to figure out their gender.”

As he dropped into the nearest chair, Wade asked, “Good tutoring session?”

Peter immediately flipped him the bird. “I literally don’t get paid enough for this shit. But it smells amazing in here. What’d you guys make?”

“Spaghetti, meatballs, and garlic bread,” Wade answered. “And, as a bonus, something green that Darcy’s going to force-feed us even though vitamins are a myth perpetuated by Big Kale.”

“You sound like the Odinkids,” Darcy retorted.

“Are they all incredibly handsome and wise past their years? Because if not . . . ” He nudged her, ostensibly to grab the pasta spoon, and Darcy kicked her lizard-brain. _Hard_. “Hey, Darcy just reminded me that I’m back in the saddle. Gwen have any cute friends? Or not-cute friends with good personalities and a love of shitty pop music? I’m not picky.”

Peter raised an eyebrow at Darcy, who shrugged. “Figure-drawing guy’s married.”

Wade nodded. “It’s a tragedy.”

“I’m sure you’ve thoroughly mourned, too,” Peter grumbled, and the downright dirty look on Wade’s face— Darcy resisted the urge to beat her head into the nearest cabinet. Thankfully, Peter continued, “Do you think I’d annoy Bruce if I—”

“Yes,” Darcy and Wade answered. In unison, which inspired a massive grin from Wade. She waved him off. “They have a brand new baby. By definition, they are not sleeping. Just wait until you see him at the party to talk to him.”

“But I don’t know what the heck I’m supposed to be doing,” Peter groused.

“Sitz and Fimmons—”

Darcy shook her head. “Still wrong.”

“—said you’re fine. Blowing up their phones like a drunk ex-boyfriend in search of a booty call, maybe, but fine.” Wade pulled the platter of garlic bread out of the oven. “You know, for a super capable guy with his life mostly together, you’re really freaking out about your job this year. You should fully embrace your chance to blind small children with science.” He paused. “Not literally, though. Just, like, proverbially.”

For the first time since he walked in, Peter huffed a laugh. “Did you just compliment me?”

“A little. Needed to up my average for the month.” Wade tossed Peter a piece of garlic bread, which he easily caught—while swearing, since it’d just come out of the oven. “Now, what’s next?”

“Next?” Peter wondered.

“It’s the Patented Peter Parker Complaint Hour, where you pour out your feelings and we—” Wade gestured at the space between him and Darcy. “—cheer you up. And don’t worry, we do later have secret meetings in dark corners where we whisper about you behind your back.”

Like a totally mature adult, Peter picked up the garlic bread and threw it straight at Wade’s face. But instead of dodging it like Darcy expected, Wade grabbed her by the hips, spun her around, and held her in front of him like a shield. She shrieked in surprise, ducking as the garlic bread sailed over their heads and hit the wall behind them.

“Did you see that? The mean science boy tried to kill me!” Wade announced, his face pretty much buried in the back of her neck. Near her hairline. Close enough she felt his breath and—

She wriggled out of his grip. “The pasta’s going to turn to mush if you don’t drain it,” she said, and returned to the solemn task of ignoring just how much she’d liked his hands on her sides.

* * *

In the end, Bruce and Natasha were only twenty minutes late the annual college football kick-off party. They still beat Darcy and Jessica Drew by five and twelve minutes, respectively. Everyone had tread the line between crowding in to coo over the newborn, dressed in a onesie with a football printed on it and impossibly tiny gray sweatpants, while also not crushing the new family with attention. 

Before the first game could even get through the first quarter, Bruce and Natasha were both asleep on the couch and somehow Steve had wound up with the baby at Phil and Clint’s kitchen table. Bucky sat down in the chair beside him, and Steve knew he was trying to not to let loose a full-on, glowing smile. “Doing okay?” his husband asked.

“I think so,” Steve asked. “Does he look okay?”

“He looks perfect.”

Steve looked down—slowly, as he was terrified that the thought of moving would cause the baby to wake up and sob—at Gabe. Steve’s hands nearly covered the baby’s whole body, which rested snugly against the center of his chest. He was soft, warm, and smelled so sweet. Steve was starting to understand Buck’s obsession with them having kids, but he was still miles away from getting on board. “You want a turn?” 

Bucky shook his head. “This view is pretty great. You keep him for a while. At least until Pepper steals him.”

“She already did,” Steve said. “Then Tony started acting weird, so she gave him to me.”

“I’ll take him if you don’t want him,” Darcy said around a mouthful of buffalo chicken dip. “I would say that he’d love me because all babies love boobs, but Steve’s chest is big enough, I guess.”

“I do appreciate resting my head on his bosom,” Bucky said with an evil grin.

“Just know that if I felt comfortable enough to stand up and walk away right now, I would,” Steve told them both. “We’re fine, Darcy, unless you really want a turn. I don’t need saved. Yet.”

“Let me eat more food so I don’t get crumbs on him, and then I’m coming for that baby.”

Bucky met his eyes again. “You sure you’re okay?”

“First time holding a baby,” Steve confessed. “At least one this small. I like them better when they can talk and let me know if something is wrong. Or at least when they’re big enough that I’m not afraid of crushing them when I’m just trying to support their head and all of that.”

“We should babysit for them,” Bucky announced. “I mean, if you want, but make it a regular thing, like once every two weeks or something. Give them some time to themselves to be adults.” He paused to check on Gabe’s parents in the living room. “Or just to catch up on some sleep.”

“Is this your not so subtle way of getting me used to a baby in our house?” Steve asked.

“No,” Bucky answered solemnly. “It’s my way of giving my friends a break every now and then.” He ran a finger lightly over the sock-covered sole of Gabe’s foot. “But if that works, I won’t complain.”

Steve expelled a huff of a laugh, but the movement was enough to jostle and wake the newborn. Before Steve’s brain could figure out what to do, a groggy Natasha was walking towards him, arms outstretched. “He’s hungry,” she informed him. “And unless someone else is lactating, I’m the only one who can fix that.”

Bucky scrunched up his face. “Please don’t ever say that word again.”

“For someone as baby crazy as you are, you’d think you wouldn’t have an issue with it,” Natasha shot back. Steve half-grinned his agreement. 

“Just how baby crazy are you?” Steve asked after Natasha had whisked Gabe away. “And why does she know more about it than me?”

“It’s not as bad as she’s making it sound,” Bucky replied. Steve kept looking at him waiting for more of an answer. The staring contest lasted for a handful of seconds before Bucky shrugged and turned his attention to the kitchen table. “She was around when my nieces and nephews started to show up. Back when I was really lonely and still dealing with a lot of stuff that I’ve gotten over. I’m not hiding anything from you. Promise.” He leaned over to kiss Steve’s cheek. It was almost enough for Steve to believe that Bucky was being entirely honest with him.


End file.
